


Days of Dearth

by Alexicon



Series: prompted on tumblr [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/pseuds/Alexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire meet in a bar. One is a hobbit and the other is a dwarf. There's no revolution, but there's something there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days of Dearth

**Author's Note:**

> For [jinxedinks](http://jinxedinks.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Prompt: I wanted to request a Middle Earth AU fic for ExR, pretty please?
> 
> ...I almost called this Les Middle-earth. Be glad that I didn't.

The Prancing Pony was nearly empty, and those who were there stared into their cups with sorrowful faces. Grantaire sighed gustily. This was not a crowd that would welcome his musical talents, nor would they appreciate a recitation of one of the many long-ago battles that he had memorized.

It looked like he would have to make do with his scanty stores of food and money again. He would have gone to forage for herbs, or perhaps a hare if he was lucky, but the dead ground ravaged by snow did not allow for food to grow just anywhere.

The Long Winter had been rough on the land and on the people of Middle Earth. Many had died. Grantaire had survived on his own only by donning a sword to protect from scavengers and by eating things that would have disgusted most dwarves– things such as tree bark and moss. There had also been a good amount of beer. A typical night had been Grantaire freezing in a cave somewhere, nursing a flask and trying to melt snow into water for his pony. He preferred to forget about how cold and hungry he’d been, but it was hard to forget when he wasn’t doing much better with food or money now.

Grantaire took another sip of his ale before glancing at the stairs. He had enough to stay here one night. However, he had planned to play for a while with the hopes that his audience would pay for the pleasure. Good job with that, he thought, eyeing the nearly empty room with eyebrows lowered accusingly.

When the door opened, the room became significantly less quiet, with a swirl of wind blasting Grantaire in the face and the pub suddenly filling with a litany of the mildest curses he had ever heard.

The figure from whom the cursing came was small, even shorter than Grantaire, who was short for a dwarf, and completely covered with a large, thick cloak. It struggled for a few moments before flinging off the hood, and then Grantaire’s world stopped.

It was a hobbit, the fairest one he’d ever seen. To be fair, Grantaire had only ever met three hobbits (and one of them had been dying at the time– long story, but the hobbit hadn’t exactly been pretty), but this one was as lovely as any elf. His hair was blond and curled down to his shoulders, his eyes were bright, and his expression was determined.

Then he opened his mouth and said, “I need to buy a horse,” very clearly, and Grantaire choked on his laughter. The hobbit’s eyes sharpened on him. “Do you have something to say, Master Dwarf?” His tone was loud and challenging, unusual for his peace-loving race.

Grantaire hummed, repressing another giggle with dignity. “Only a question, Master Hobbit: have you ever seen a horse?”

“Of course I have!” the hobbit sputtered, blushing bright red with the dodgy eyes of a man with no skill at lying. He approached Grantaire’s table bravely and looked down his nose at the dwarf. “Have you a horse to sell?”

“I have a pony to rent,” Grantaire said, tilting his head and leaning closer. “What do you need her for?”

The hobbit studied his face carefully, glancing between Grantaire’s eyes and ears and visible neck before seeming to come to a decision. “I have to go to Rivendell.”

“Rivendell,” Grantaire repeated. “The, uh, the one with the elves?”

“Obviously.”

“Ah.” Grantaire stared into his drink for a moment and swirled it around. “I’m not sure I trust my pony around elves.”

The hobbit scoffed. “What are they going to do, eat it?”

“They might!” Grantaire retorted, spreading his arms dramatically. “Anyway, I can’t let my pony go to Rivendell with you–”

“I hadn’t even offered to rent it yet,” the hobbit interjected, bemused.

“– _alone_ ,” the dwarf finished forcefully. He stared at the hobbit balefully, as if to kill any objections before they formed. When none were offered, he continued calmly, “I am Grantaire, son of Baldoin, at your service.”

“Enjolras Took, at yours. I seem to have acquired an _escort_. Will he be needing anything tonight or might we sleep before starting off tomorrow?”

“I believe sleep may be wise,” Grantaire said agreeably.

The next day, they met by the stables to put their bags and Enjolras on the pony. They progressed in uncomfortable silence for the first few days, until Enjolras lost his balance (and his dignity), falling headfirst into a small pond by the roadside.

“You’re lucky that pond was there,” Grantaire informed him, trying not to chuckle at the hobbit’s damp curls. “That would’ve hurt if you’d fallen on the ground.”

“It did hurt,” Enjolras replied testily. “The pond isn’t that deep. Do you have some sort of cloth I can use to dry off?”

“What, you didn’t bring your tea towel collection with you?” the dwarf needled. He was met with only a freezing glare, and then a shower of water droplets when Enjolras whipped his head to glare at the pony as well. “Oi, no glaring at my Zirak, she hasn’t done anything to you. It’s not her fault you don’t know how to sit still.”

“I know how to sit still,” Enjolras bit out. “I am merely having some trouble believing that this creature is a pony rather than a horse.”

Grantaire stared at him. “She’s definitely a pony.”

Enjolras drooped, dripping miserably onto the grass.

“What is the problem?” Grantaire sighed.

“My brother can ride a _horse_ ,” the hobbit spat out poisonously. “If this is a pony, how big must a horse be?”

Grantaire sized him up. Enjolras was maybe a little tall for a hobbit, but that was still very short. His brother must have been a giant amongst hobbits. “Are you sure he wasn’t exaggerating just a tad?”

“Bandobras Took does not exaggerate,” Enjolras replied with certainty. “Besides, there are songs about him. In one, he takes a running jump onto one of the horses.”

“There are songs about a hobbit? Really?” Grantaire said, surprised. “Do you know any of them?”

“Not by heart. There are only so many times you can hear your brother referred to as ‘Bullroarer’ before bursting into tears or laughter. Why?”

The dwarf gave him a strange look. “That’s my livelihood. I’m a minstrel.”

“Are you really?” Enjolras asked delightedly, gaping.

“Did the lute-shaped bag not give you a hint?”

“It could’ve been some strange kind of dwarfish weapon! I don’t know that sort of thing!” Enjolras cried.

“Strange dwarfish weapon! This coming from the creature who lives in a hole in the ground!”

“Better a hole in the ground than living nowhere!”

They stared in opposite directions for a few minutes to cool off their tempers before relenting.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire apologized. “I’m sure it’s a very nice hole in the ground.”

“It isn’t,” Enjolras admitted. “I only recently moved out of my family’s home, after my father died last year. But it is my hole.”

“I understand that,” said Grantaire. “But, may I ask, why are you so determined to get to Rivendell when you seem to be comfortable with your home?”

Enjolras’s face brightened. “That is the thing, Master Grantaire. I cannot be comfortable in any way when there are hobbits starving even now in the Shire! We do not have enough food to feed us all and there are no stores for the next winter. We hobbits will die together– slowly, but surely– if we cannot solicit aid from those who can give it.”

“And you are sure that the elves are the answer to this problem?”

“The elves have ways of making food that does not go stale and that feeds one to fullness with very little. Of all the races, I have the most hope in the elves for this.”

They arrived at Rivendell in three weeks’ travel. Enjolras did not quite storm the gates (as he clearly could have), but after presenting the Shire’s desperate need for food, he encouraged the blank-faced elves into a decision by saying, “I refuse to eat until the needs of my people have been met,” which Grantaire knew was a big deal. Enjolras had eaten nearly twice as much as Grantaire had on their trip and had still managed to look sharp-boned and underfed. The elves caved quickly, obviously fond of the fierce hobbit, and also believing greatly in their own hospitality– although Enjolras insisted to Grantaire that no rational being could help but to give aid when the cries of those in need of aid are truly understood. The dwarf laughed at that.

It was at this point that Grantaire discovered that Enjolras was brother to the Thain of the Shire.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a prince?” he hissed to the hobbit, trying to hide his mouth discreetly at the banquet table in case any of the elves could read lips and know his embarrassment.

Enjolras scowled, his eyes flashing. “We have no royalty in the Shire. A man who calls himself king assumes a power over the people which should be limited by the inherent rights of the people.”

Grantaire stared at him like a man who has seen the stars for the first time, then broke away to stare at the elves’ fine cutlery which he was digging nervously into the wood of the table. “You seem to have strong opinions about this,” he said.

“I prefer to call it faith,” Enjolras replied.

“I’ve come to find that I don’t have faith in much.”

Enjolras turned a brilliant smile on him. “All you need is to have faith in people. Not everyone chooses to do good, but good is always a possibility and you have to believe in that.”

“I begin to believe in you, I think,” Grantaire told him in an odd tone, his eyes fixed upon the hobbit’s hands.

Enjolras’s smile softened and he grasped Grantaire’s wrist warmly. “That is a good start.”

**Author's Note:**

> A surprising amount of research went into this, even if it doesn't show. However, if you ever need anyone to convert Shire years to Middle-earth years, I'm good for it.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com)!


End file.
